


Jaspar Among Mirrors

by Fluffysminion



Series: Lost in a Dream of Mirrors [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Dark Heresy - Freeform, Mutation Stage: One, Penumbra (demon world)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffysminion/pseuds/Fluffysminion
Summary: Separated from the rest of his team, Jaspar is left to explore the alien landscape of the endless city of Penumbra on his own.
Series: Lost in a Dream of Mirrors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844359





	1. Lost

In the immediate aftermath of the combat, their guide Tric seems somewhat shaken and at a loss as to which way to go in order to avoid further contact with the ratfolk. Standing still seems like the worst possible option, so although nobody wants to make the executive decision one way or another, a collective choice is made to press on in the direction they were originally travelling - the route that Tric reckoned as the most direct way to Penumbra. He leads mutely, anxious. There is no conversation as the party keep a collective eye out for danger. The silence is oppressive. Jaspar had begun to get used to the constant patter of small talk between Tric, Genevieve and Petriv. The mood is tense and sombre.

_He recalls Elizabeth cradling him gently in her arms, carrying him through the endless darkness. She is shaken, wounded, grief-stricken. For some reason he does not speak to her. Why does he not speak to her?_

The trek is long and anxious. His feet ache from walking. It's impossible to gauge whether they are making good time or not. He lags behind, exhausted and aching from his many injuries. Their tattooed guide sets a hard pace, made harder by the knowledge that he must keep careful, constant watch on everyone's behalf. They do not remember to stay alert, and even when they do they don't seem to know where to look or what to watch for.

He pauses, again, to catch his breath. He extends a hand to lean against the wall for support. The metal is shiny. As his hand approaches the surface he sees it reflected - not clearly, but far more sharply than sheet metal should reflect anything. It is wrong and Jaspar knows it, but it's too late to curtail the motion. As he makes contact, a wave of metallic shine ripples outwards from his hand, like quicksilver across the surface. For a moment there is resistance. Then it gives way like the surface of water beneath his weight. The world seems to tip on its side, as if the corridor is a box and he is being emptied casually out. There is a momentary glimpse of his own surprised face, reflected. Then he falls beneath the surface.

_It is dark. Utterly, oppressively dark. He is not sure if he is still falling. There is no floor to land upon. No air rushing past. No light, no sound. Nothing._

He lands on wooden floorboards. The sound and shock of the impact are startling, but he doesn't seem to have fallen far. He isn’t hurt - at least not seriously. It is still dark, but not absolutely so. He is disoriented. Instinct tells him to react, to be ready for danger. But his body is bruised and tired and sluggish to respond.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath Jaspar slowly starts to get up, trying to make the motion as smooth as his injuries will allow. Hoping that whatever danger lurks in the darkness won’t notice.

In the meantime, he explores cautiously by touch, listening carefully for danger. It is very, very quiet. He is acutely aware of his own breathing, the small sounds of his armour as he moves and the floor creaking quietly beneath his feet. There is no machine hum, no distant engine rumble, no muted sound of distant conversation. Only a faint, continuous susurration, as of wind muffled by barriers between him and it. He moves carefully, trying to stay quiet, still half-crouched to avoid knocking his head. The ceiling is supported by beams at regular intervals, cool metal beneath his fingertips. It slopes down to the floor, where dim light filters through from below. At the centre of the space, it is high enough to stand upright and a little more, then it slopes down again on the other side. As his vision gradually catches up, a small dark shape on the floor resolves into the ring-pull for a trapdoor in the floor.

The trapdoor is not heavy. As Jaspar opens it, warm pinkish light pours out. It is not very bright below, but it still seems so to his newly dark-adapted eyes. The room below is a bedroom, lavish with furniture of dark, well-cared-for wood with cushions, pillows and blankets strewn everywhere. The walls are lined with velvet drapes. The light emanates from numerous smokey glow-globes in a range of pink and orange hues, dotted here and there about the room. It is warm below and a savoury, meaty smell wafts up with the air. For a moment it makes him hungry, but the thought of actually eating is unappealing. Everything tastes of ash, these days.

There is no ladder, so Jaspar drops down. The carpet is surprisingly soft underfoot. The bedchamber is crowded with chairs and cabinets, leaving little space to manoeuvre around the double bed in the centre. There are two doors, both of the same dark wood as the furnishings. One is closed, the other stands slightly ajar. It is dark beyond. He shifts to get a better view, and can just about make out the shape of a pale ceramic sink in the darkened room.

The door opens onto a landing in a similar style to the bedroom. Further doors, cautiously investigated, reveal another bedroom and a small study. Following the smell of food, he proceeds down the stairs. Every part of the house, if that is what this is, is decorated in a similar style - absolutely crowded with drapes and decor and furnishings that would cost a fortune on Juno. The same rather frivolous lighting scheme prevails throughout, though he notes fixtures on the ceiling that suggest more traditional lights are available.

The place seems deserted, stiflingly silent. But when Jaspar reaches the front room, he finds a table that is laid for five. Plates of stew are set out, still steaming faintly. The cutlery is untouched.

“Hello?” He speaks the word rather than shout it, reluctant to disturb the quiet. The idea of being alone is starting to seem worse than there being something else around.

It almost feels like the sound should echo. But of course it doesn't. It falls quietly into the soft dimness, and goes unanswered. With no other ideas Jaspar continues to explore, searching for other people. He notes a kitchen. It is clean, tidy and unoccupied. Another closed door, sturdier, looks like the kind of door that might open onto the outside. On the other side, the sound that might be wind.

Jaspar pauses for a moment at the door, listening to the wind-sound and gathering his courage. Then he throws open the door.

The vista beyond is dizzying. It is night-dark, not quite dark, enough light to see by filtering down from a clouded sky that lowers impossibly far overhead. Jaspar stands atop a hill, a cobbled street stretching forwards and downwards ahead of him. He is overlooking a vast city that sprawls in all directions - a maze of narrow cobbled streets and crowded buildings. The houses are unlike anything found in a hive. They could be taken from some archaic woodcut, steep gable roofs crowding close to one another. There are very few lights, just the occasional sparkle in the distance. The horizon is light, the silhouettes of the occasional tall building poking up from the forest of pointy roofs.

Closer, he can see that the primary construction materials are metal and glass - so much glass in many cases that you can see right into the interior of the nearby houses and pick out lights and furniture. The exteriors are decorated with window boxes and hanging baskets full of flowers, incongruous in the darkness.

He almost misses the people. There are two of them. He gets a glimpse of patched clothes and skinny frames as they bolt away from him, disappearing into a nearby alley. Jaspar gives chase but doesn’t call after them to stop, uncertain that they would listen even if they could hear him.

Their lead is only narrow to begin with, but Jaspar is quick on the chase. It takes a second to adjust to running on cobbles - it’s not a type of flooring he’s encountered before - but he’s no stranger to uneven surfaces. There is plenty of purchase, at least, as he turns the corner hard on their heels. He can see them more clearly, though the darkness robs them of colour and detail. A man and a woman - or perhaps just a girl? - fleeing hand in hand. They are neither armed nor armoured, dressed practically if shabbily. They run at the panicked, flat-out pace of desperation. But most people who run away from him are desperate. If they knew what they were doing, they’d take another turn as soon as possible and try to lose him in the maze-like streets. But they run straight, and it does not take long for him to close the distance.

“Stop! Who are you?” Jaspar demands, reaching for the man’s shoulder in an attempt to turn him to face him.

He is very thin. Jaspar can feel his bones beneath his hand. It is not difficult for Jaspar to spin him to see his face, pulling him to a stop. He doesn’t have the bulk or momentum to pull out of Jaspar’s grip. The girl tugs at his hand frantically. Unwilling to let go, she is forced to stop as well. They are both clearly afraid. The girl is on the cusp of adolescence. A dark blotch, perhaps a birthmark, creeps across the left hand side of her face. The man’s face is lined, suggesting age. His teeth are blackened and uneven. He cringes away from Jaspar, but makes no serious attempt at pulling away.

“M’ Karger,” he mumbles. His breath rasps unhealthily as he breathes heavily from the sprint.

“Dun’t hurt’m,” the girl pleads, still tugging at his hand as if to encourage him to run again. “What d’y’want?”

“I want to know where I am.” He keeps his hand on Karger’s shoulder in case he tries to run again. “And how I might find the people I was travelling with.”

Their expressions are utterly blank for a moment, as if they don’t understand the words he is saying. Karger is quicker to recover.

“Y’ve lost sum’n?” he asks, “M’sorry.” It sounds almost reflexive, like the condolences you offer to a stranger who has suffered a loss.

“M’surry, lud,” the girl echoes. It’s almost a plea. She sounds confused, frightened. “I don’ und’stan. Where y’are? Y’right here…”

“But where is here? Does this place have a name?” Jaspar addresses his questions to the girl this time. “Help me and I’ll let you go.”

“I want t’help, lud.” She nods an affirmation, a little frantic. “I jus don’ und’stan, please. Where… is here?” She repeats your question back as if it is nonsense to her, glancing left and right. You aren’t sure if she is looking for something, or preparing to bolt. “I s’pose a place could have a name. If t’has I don’ know’t, lud, m’surry. T’s’a street, t’s’uh… t’s dark, t’s narrow, t’s windy, I... m’surry, I don’ know what y’want t’hear...”

“Nevermind then. Can you take me where you are going?” He prepares to let go when she answers.


	2. But He's Only a Little Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaspar knows nothing.

Jaspar sits on the cobbled street, eating fruit that tastes of echoes from a pink and green tin. He feels more relaxed than he has for a long time. He eats fast, concerned that the taste will fade if he gives it the chance.

“My name’s Jaspar. I’m sorry I scared you, I hope I can make it up to you. I was confused and terrified of being alone, and really very out of my depth.” He considers offering a hand but decides against it since the others are still busy eating.

The pair exchange a puzzled glance. If anything, the friendly overture appears to amplify their unease with him. But they are less panicked than they were at first.

“Karger,” Karger offers.

The girl hesitates. “Nikota,” she ventures. Her accent renders it something like _Ni-kuh-tuh_. “Y’don got t’be surry, lud. We’re very thankful y’treatin us good.” She nods anxiously, the gesture becoming faintly ridiculous through repetition.

“It’s good to meet you Nikota, Karger” He nods respectfully at each in turn, successfully resisting the instinct to reach up to tip the hat he no longer has. “Why do you keep calling me lud? What does it mean?”

Nikota takes a moment to formulate a response, and Karger speaks while she is thinking.

“Ts’what y’call people like you, nt’it? W’guns n’all.”

“Ts’meant as respec,” Nikota adds hurriedly, “W’can call y’sumthin else, f’y’prefer…”

“I don’t mind, I’m just confused by all this. As you can probably tell from all the stupid questions I’m asking.” Jaspar smiles apologetically. “Which I’m grateful to you for answering, believe me. But I don’t want you to feel like I’m threatening you, I don’t want to hurt you.” I sigh. “I’m not making things any better am I?”

“Things’r good, lud,” Nikota nods. She smiles tentatively, but it is obviously forced. “This is good. We c’show y’everthin y’need. If y’do good by us, lud, we’ll do good by you. S’long as y’need.”

Karger chokes on his fruit and gives Nikota an incredulous look, still spluttering and coughing. She returns an urgent glare.

“Whatever y’need, lud,” she reiterates. “We can’t t’defen ourselves, but y’need answers, y’need food findin, anthin like that… we’ll do our best, y’jus stay w’us.”

“If you are sure you’re ok with me sticking around?” He says, looking mainly at Karger. He’s somewhat concerned by his response to the suggestion, but he’s clueless as to what to do about it. He’s not that bad, surely.

“‘Cause if not I could leave. I’m sure my friends will find me eventually, I’ll just have to survive until then.” He looks along the street, well aware that this place is still strange enough that he wouldn’t recognise any part of it even if he had seen it before (or later?).

“D’like t’stick t’gether,” Nikota insists, head still bobbing urgently. “We c’show y’what y’need, n’you can p’tect us, right lud?” The words are addressed to Jaspar, but she glances meaningfully at Karger and you get the impression that they are aimed at him.

“I mean, sure,” he acknowledges, still coughing intermittently. “Whatever works f’you, lud.”

“I’d like to stick around. You can help me and I’ll do my best to protect you, I give you my word.” He tries (and fails) not to think of the rats and how well that went. “I’ll admit I’m not the best fighter I know but I’ll do what I can.”

“T’settled then.” Nikota smiles - a genuine flash of teeth. “So... y’really don know anthin?” She seems to realise what she has said a moment later and looks horrified with herself. “Surry,” she blurts, “I mean. Um.”

“That’s ok.” Jaspar laughs a little, relieved to see an emotion other than fear or mistrust. “It’s close enough to the truth. There’s a lot you’ll have to teach me, just promise you won’t abuse my tragic naivety to tell me all sorts of outrageous lies.” He give her a look suggesting that he is expecting her to try telling him all sorts of outrageous lies.

“I promise,” she swears solemnly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time Karger experiences the emotion that will be his main experience from now on: "why do you want this, child?"


	3. Hakuna Matatta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to forget about your problems and let the locals teach you to eat bugs.

The first and firmest lesson they insist upon is never to lose line of sight to one another. Get separated, they say, and you will probably never see each other again. Certainly they stay very close to each other all the time, usually within arm’s length. Wary of Jaspar as they might be, they seem most comfortable keeping him just as close.

Nikota warms to him quickly. Though she still treats him as a figure of respect, she is cautiously willing to share humour. She opens up easily, talking about her lost family. She does not understand questions like “how long ago?” but he gets the impression that it was recent, the grief still raw. She and Karger took a wrong turn running from a hunting beast, and they never saw the others again. They are both sympathetic to his own separation from his friends. Karger is not cold to him, but he remains more wary and distant than his niece Nikota. The respect is always laced with an undercurrent of fear, and an edge of almost reverence that makes it hard to forge a connection.

Their life is a cautious one, dominated by the constant watch for danger. They move through the endless, mostly-empty city with no particular destination in mind. Try as he might, questions about direction and location are always met with confusion and answers no more complex than “this way” or “here” or “‘nother street”. Movement seems to be driven mostly by the demands of foraging. They seek out plants and animals by preference, finding food plants growing in sheltered spots between the cobbles and setting snares for mutated almost-rats. It’s meagre fare, unappetising and as tasteless as everything else. Canned food and, indeed, freshly prepared meals are not difficult to find in the houses. But his companions are reluctant to eat from the houses unless growing desperate. “Y’got t’be careful,” Karger advises. “Th’ouses are tricky, y’can get poisoned or changed by sum’a that food.”

Occasionally he sees others, at a distance. Other small groups of ragged survivors pick through the streets or across the rooftops, moving with the same caution and lack of direction. They avoid Jaspar’s group, giving a wide berth to him and his weapons. Karger and Nikota share uncomfortable looks sometimes, but they are reluctant to raise whatever is on their minds.

For his part Jaspar does his best to be helpful as more than just something carrying a gun, although his ignorance means that most of the time his attempts to help are more of a hindrance as he questions every step. In many ways he feels like more of a child than Nikota, which only makes the moments when he sees their wariness even more jarring. There’s a strange tension between wanting to seem strong and to prove that there are things he can do, and wanting to seem weak and unthreatening so as not to frighten them away. 

Jaspar spends a lot of time on watch for danger, while he doesn’t know what he’s looking for he can alert the others to movement or changes in the scenery. He teaches Nikota the word games he used to play with Sal when they were on stake outs, ones that are engaging enough to put off boredom but not distracting enough to make paying attention difficult. On a few occasions he offers them rations from his pack so they don’t have to go looking in the buildings, and he feels like he’s helping.

Learning to survive on the cobbled streets is slow and difficult. The caution and constant alertness for danger come easily; even the narrower streets feel open and exposed with so few people around and he’s used to expecting to be attacked at any moment. It’s all the other little things he struggles with. Things that, he tells them bitterly, most of his other companions would probably know more about than him. 

Cooking, for example. Jaspar is initially both confused and horrified by the idea of making food out of things that run around and things found in the ground, but after he gets used to the idea he finds it fascinating. “I had no idea you could make food on such a small scale.” He tells them. It’s not a thing he had ever thought about, but there are a lot of things here that he hadn’t ever had to think about before. He decides he am broadly in favour of it, mostly because he likes the smell. 

He has been travelling with them a while before he works up the courage to ask about the way people avoid him. “They’re scared because I carry this, aren’t they?” He gestures at the gun. “But there’s more to it than that, more than just the threat of the weapon. It means something doesn’t it?” He sighs. “Or maybe it’s carrying a weapon at all that means something, I don’t know. But I feel like I’m carrying a sign written in a language I don’t speak but everyone else does.”

“Ts’not persnal,” Nikota assures him sympathetically. “Y’pre scary w’y’gun an y’armour n’all. Th’don know y'a good’n.”

Karger has more insight. “The's two sorts’a people, lud,” he tells Jaspar, “Our sort, who’ve got nuthin n can't t’defen ourselves but by runnin. N’your sort, who’s got weapons n’gods n’alien knowings n’can do as y’please. Most of your sort aren't so kind s’you.”

“So what, people who are armed just take from everyone else with no consequences? And they get away with it and no-one can stop them?” He shakes his head in disgust. “It’s wrong. It shouldn’t be like that.” The more he thinks about it the more angry it makes him. “People like that are not my sort. There are people like that everywhere, people who think the rules don’t apply to them, people who think they can do what they want because they are strong, or come from a higher level, or because they have a lot of well armed friends. I have spent most of my life hunting those people, stopping them so they don’t hurt anyone else. I am not one of them.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “I know you didn’t mean it like that. I guess it’s still a sensitive subject.”

Nikota listens to him with something approaching awe. For all her streetwise canniness and her confidence in taking the lead, she is very young. Karger is more cautious. Jaspar’s anger sets him visibly on edge and his tone is that cautious, purposefully calm one that people use when talking with those who might be dangerously unstable.

“M’surry lud. I b’lieve you. Y’been nuthin but good t’us. S’jus what others’ll see, when th’see you.”

“How else should’t be,” Nikota asks, “F’not like this?”

“There should be things in place to stop people like that from hurting others. There should be people who look out for everyone so that people can get on and do things without worrying about someone coming and taking it away. There should be rules and there should be people making sure everyone sticks to those rules, that’s how it should work.” He is proud to have been a part of something he believes in. “Of course it didn’t always work like that, sometimes people hid too well, or had enough connections, and sometimes the rules were unfair. But for most people most of the time it worked.”

“I’m not sure that would work here though. Here is too big and strange and easy to get lost in.” He finds himself wondering if this place would hold its shape better if there were crowds like there were back home. Or maybe the winding streets wouldn’t allow it, and would twist and turn to split them up into more manageable chunks.

At this last Nikota, who has been hanging on his words, looks deeply wounded. Tears well in her eyes. Karger puts his arms around her.

“Don cry, sweet,” he tells her, “Ts’just a glass dream. Ts’a pre dream, f’sure, b’jus glass.” He shoots Jaspar a look as if to say Now look what you’ve done. It is almost venomous, startling because he has always been so careful not to express any disapproval of him so far.

Jaspar looks at one then the other, unsure how to respond. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He trails off, unsure where the sentence was going. 

A crying child, he thinks, another of the many things he is unequipped to deal with. He crouches down and tries to meet her eyes. “Nikota? Nikota I’m sorry.” He looks helplessly up at Karger but the focus of his attention is on his niece. he swallows nervously and tries again. “Nikota I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry I spoke without thinking. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you on purpose.” He considers moving closer but decides against it, he doesn’t want to upset her further and he’s afraid Karger wouldn’t allow it. “I’m just clumsy with words like I’m clumsy at setting snares.” He smiles cautiously. “Can you forgive me?”

“Ts’alright,” she tells him. It’s unconvincing the first time, muffled by tears, but she swallows and wipes her eyes. It’s unclear if his words are helping or if she’s just pulling herself together. “Ts’alright,” she asserts more confidently. She takes a breath and straightens her shoulders in a very adult gesture of mastering her tears. “T’was jus… t’was jus a foolish thought.” She smiles at him. It is wan and a little forced, but she steps forwards out of Karger’s arms and reaches out as if to comfort him.

“Y’haven hurt me, Jaspar. Don worry. I jus cut m’self on a sharp thought. S’nuthin t’fergiv.”  
Karger doesn’t stop her. He rarely does. But he does watch Jaspar disapprovingly, wary on her behalf as she goes to put her hands on his shoulders.

“Alright? M’alright. Y’alright?”

“I’m alright. I was just worried about you.” He glances at Karger for permission before putting one arm around her and hugging her briefly. “But it seems I didn’t need to, you’re stronger than you look.” He is proud of her bravery, and sad that she has to be brave. He stands up slowly while looking at Kager, trying to silently thank him for trusting me as far as he has.

She smiles brightly at the praise, wipes her eyes again.

“Ts’not so bad,” Karger offers. The hostility is fading fast, leaving him looking tired and worried. “Y’do as y’told, y’don get hurt, f’the most part.”

Nikota looks up at Jaspar earnestly.

“Will y’teach me t’shoot a gun?” she asks. A slight wobble in her voice betrays her strong emotions.

“Nikota…” Karger warns.

“What?” she looks back at him, angry. “Why shouldn I learn t’defen m’self? I don want t’be jus a dirty scavvy f’rever!” She spits the word 'scavvy’ like a curse, then looks back to Jaspar for support. “Jaspar,” she pleads, “Will y’teach me t’defen m'self?” Her eyes are wet again, but her expression is a serious frown.

Jaspar puts his hands up, not wanting to be drawn into taking sides. “Maybe when you’re older, if Karger agrees. I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t teach both of you, when you’re old enough. But um, I hate to be, well, me, but what’s a scavvy?”

Nikota goes still and stiff at the refusal and he can see that she's angry. Tears fall from her eyes, but she does not acknowledge them. She is quiet, expression tight and upset.

“Ts’what, uh, ts’what th’hunters call us,” Karger tells him. “A word f’th’kinda people y’can jus grab n’use as y’will.” 

He’s heard the term before, it strikes him. In Shadowfall and aboard the Scullion’s Arse, when discussions were had about the threats and terrain of Penumbra. 

Always used dismissively, as 'no one but scavvies’ and similar phrases. A term for the locals, not obviously perjorative at the time, but certainly conveying no great respect.

“Shhh, it’s ok.” He reaches down to hold her hand. “I don’t think any less of you for not knowing how to use a weapon, and I wouldn’t think any more of you if you did know, ok?” He leans over to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “In fact, I think you’re a lot better than the people who use their weapons to take from those who don’t.”

He looks back at Karger. “I won’t let people use you like that anymore, you or Nikota. I said I’d protect you and I meant it.” He gives Nikota’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I may not be able to change the way things are, but I can do what I can to make sure nothing bad happens to you. And maybe that’s enough.”

She seems a little mollified by the comfort, although she doesn't respond. If anything her expression suggests that she is faintly offended by being talked to as a child. But she doesn't pull her hand away.  
“Yer alright, y’know,” Karger offers with an awkward half-smile. It looks forced. He hesitates, then blurts out “Y’might not undstan enthin, but I'm glad y’here.”

Jaspar is unsure how to respond to this. He suddenly feels self conscious and awkward. “I’m glad I’m here.” He means it, he thinks. Things have been pretty miserable since he left Juno, but recently there have been positives as well as negatives. He looks down at his feet, embarrassed, wondering where all my confidence has gone.

“C’mon, let’s keep movin,” Karger suggests. He seems equally uncomfortable with the conversation. But when Jaspar starts to follow him, Nikota refuses to move. The tug of her hand in his as he starts to pull away and she stays still causes him to look back at her. She meets his eyes with intensity.

“I don b’long t’him, y’know,” she tells him quietly, vehemently. “Ts’not up t’him t’choose what I do.”

Jaspar sighs. “I know that. But I trust his judgement more than my own when it comes to keeping you safe.” He pauses, trying to think of how to explain his decision. “I should trust you too, I know. It’s just when you two disagree I don’t want to pick a side because I’m worried that there’s some aspect I don’t understand and I might make the wrong choice. I’d feel a lot better about it if you were in agreement.”

“M’not a baby ‘nymore.” She sighs softly, hesitating, and for a moment he thinks she might be done with digging her heels in. Then she looks up at him with challenge in her eyes. “F’I b’long t’enone, ts’you. Ts’how things work, y’know.”

“Well I don’t care for the way things work. I don’t think I have the right to own anyone just because I have a gun and they don’t, and that’s that.” He meets her challenge, looking her in the eyes as he speaks.

Nikota smiles a little, then has to blink away fresh tears.  
“Alright,” she tells him, managing to sound almost confident. She squeezes his hand tightly, then starts to follow Karger, expecting him to walk with her.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a rp that I made slightly more readable considering I want to show it to everyone I meet.


End file.
